


“We won’t even see each other!”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [13]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, F/M, Fluff, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 16:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: For lilliebythesea, who requested one of them walking in on the other by accident.





	“We won’t even see each other!”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilliebythesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilliebythesea/gifts).

> I wrote this and didn’t like the end. Put it aside to think for a bit. Came back and decided I did like the end. Go figure.
> 
> Not to be taken toooooo seriously...

Robin knocked quietly on Strike’s office door and opened it, a mug of tea in her hand. She was expecting to see him on the phone - the only usual reason he closed his door these days - but he was scowling at his laptop screen, scrolling with the mouse.

“Fucking Pride weekend,” he muttered, and glanced up. “Thanks.”

Robin set his tea down next to him, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong with Pride weekend? I’m going on Saturday night, I’ll have you know. Big concert in Hyde Park. Anthony invited me.” Anthony was Robin’s former flatmate and Ilsa’s friend.

Strike waved a dismissive arm. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just every bloody hotel in the capital is booked, and look at the prices for what’s left. Four hundred quid for a decent room. Even the bloody Travelodge is over two hundred. Fuck’s sake.”

Robin frowned. “Why do you need a hotel?”

Strike sighed and sat back, raking frustrated hands though his hair, making it even wilder. “Bloody plumbing upstairs is fucked again. I mean, I could cope when it was just the shower. I can go shower at the gym. But now I can’t even flush the toilet, so I have to vacate. Plumber can’t come till Monday, even though I practically begged.”

“Ilsa and Nick?”

“Got Ilsa’s parents this weekend. I tried them first. They offered me the sofa, but they’re doing family stuff.”

Robin set her jaw. “Right, then. You can stay with me.”

Strike stilled. “Don’t be silly,” he said lightly. “I can manage.”

“Not without water to fill the kettle and a loo that flushes.”

“I can come down here.”

“And what if the pressure drops even further and we lose water on this floor too? And you’ll be up and down the stairs all the time, it’s not good for your leg.”

Strike sighed. “I’ll manage.”

“Come on, Cormoran. It’s one weekend.”

“It’s not appropriate.”

Robin quirked an eyebrow. “Were you planning on being inappropriate?”

He flushed a little. “Of course not. But we’re work colleagues. It’s not right.”

“I’d like to think we’re also friends.”

He didn’t have an answer for that.

“Look, it’ll be fine. You’re tailing Redhead all day Saturday. I’m out Saturday night and tailing her all day Sunday. You can have my spare key, and the sofa bed. We won’t even see each other.”

Strike’s brain scrambled, trying to think up an excuse. Any excuse. Except the truth - that his battered heart couldn’t face the thought of being in cosy domestic proximity with her, even for only 48 hours. It might not recover.

Robin tapped her foot, waiting for his answer. He’d hesitated too long.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “Thanks.”

...

“I thought you had your parents up this weekend?” Robin asked Ilsa as she slid into the seat opposite her. The little cafe was bustling, and shoppers scurried or strolled past the window, laden with bags.

“We have, but they’re at a show this afternoon. That’s why they’re here, we got them the tickets for Christmas.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Yeah, I felt really bad turning Cormoran down. Did he get sorted?”

Robin flushed a little. “Er, yeah. He’s staying with me.”

Ilsa stilled, her latte halfway to her lips, one eyebrow climbing her forehead. “How’s that going?”

Robin blushed redder. “Well—”

Ilsa grinned and put her coffee down. “Have you got gossip? Have you two snogged?”

Robin shook her head vigorously. “No! No, nothing like that. Just... I assured him we wouldn’t even see each other, but I’ve seen rather more of him than I was expecting.”

“Ooh, interesting. Do tell!”

Robin leaned forward, glancing around to check no one was listening in.

“Well,” she began. “He was out tailing Redhead Thursday night, so that was fine. I’d gone to bed before he got in. We had breakfast and travelled to work together yesterday, that was kind of weird, but nice. Last night I was out with Vanessa, so when I got in I just skirted round the sofa bed and went to bed. He was snoring.”

Ilsa nodded. So far, so boring.

“He’s ever so tidy.”

“He is, he’s the perfect house guest. You hardly know he’s there. But go on.”

“So I slept in a bit this morning after my late night, and he was going out to tail Redhead. We have to follow her all weekend when her husband is out of town, that’s when he’s most suspicious. So I’m lying in bed, and I can hear the shower running.”

“And?”

“Well,” Robin continued, blushing again. “I heard this sort of bang. He must have dropped the shower gel or knocked the shower door or something, I don’t know. Looking back, it wasn’t even that big a bang. But I was half asleep, and for a split second, I thought he must have fallen, you know, trying to balance. My shower hasn’t got grab rails. And without thinking, I jumped up and ran in there.”

Ilsa clapped her hands to her mouth, her eyes dancing with laughter. “Oh, my goodness! Did he see you?”

“No! Thank god, he had his back to me, and he didn’t hear me over the water. I just backed out again really fast. Well, quite fast. Well, eventually.”

Ilsa leaned forward now, grinning. “Did you see...everything?”

Pink-cheeked, Robin nodded. “I saw his back, and his arse, and my goodness, Ils—” She drifted for a moment, remembering. “He was washing his hair, and all the shampoo was running down his back and over his bum, and his arms and shoulders were—” she sighed dreamily, and Ilsa sighed too, imagining.

“And then he half-turned to reach for the conditioner, and my goodness, his chest—”

“Wait. Half-turned? So you didn’t see—?”

Robin giggled. “No, just his arse. But if the size of the rest of him is anything to go by—”

“Robin!” Ilsa pretended a scandal she clearly didn't feel, grinning at her friend. “So what did you say to him when he got out? Did you manage to look him in the face?”

Robin giggled. “I went back to bed and stayed there till he’d gone out!”

Ilsa roared with laughter. “So that’s the plan? Just avoid him?”

“Yeah, till I stop thinking about his tight backside with bubbles running down it.” Robin grinned shamelessly, and Ilsa giggled and drank her coffee.

...

Robin arrived back at her flat with just enough time to spare to shower quickly before meeting Anthony. She’d stayed longer than she intended with Ilsa, chatting away and forgetting the time. Strike was still out, so she threw her clothes off, grabbed a towel and showered quickly. She contemplated leaving her hair to dry naturally, but there was a hint of a chill to the encroaching evening, so she decided she’d better dry it. She pulled on a pair of black knickers, and hesitated over a bra. A nice one, or a comfy one? She grabbed her hair dryer and started to blast her hair as she thought through the options.

Exhausted from a long and incredibly tedious day tailing Redhead, Strike had bought himself a takeaway curry and a few bottles of Doom Bar on the way home. He was glad Robin was going to be out, looking forward to a curry and a few beers in front of the television. If he slid the sofa a little closer to the bathroom so he could hop across to the doorway, he could even take his leg off and ease his aching stump.

He could hear her hair dryer running as he entered the flat, calling out hello. Robin didn’t answer. He moved to the little kitchenette, dumping his curry and beers, and went to poke his head in her open bedroom door to let her know he was back.

On the far side of the room, Robin stood with her back to him in front of her mirror, hair dryer in hand, naked save for a tiny pair of black knickers. Strike froze, unable to tear his eyes away from the shapely sweep of her back, the impossible length of her legs, the curves of her arse cheeks peeking out of the little knickers. She raised the hair dryer high above her head, the other hand lifting her hair at the roots, and he could see the curve of the side of her breast and a little peek of armpit hair, imperfectly shaved, that for some inexplicable reason sent a bolt of lust straight to his groin.

Her eyes met his in the mirror, and she shrieked and spun round to face him. For a horrified moment they stared at one another and Strike tried to keep his eyes on her face, he really did, but her breasts were so _perfect_—

“Cormoran!”

It had only been a split second. Appalled at himself, Strike swung hurriedly away, even as Robin dropped the hair dryer and tried to cover herself with her hands.

“Sorry!” he cried into the empty living room. “I just wanted to say I was back, I didn’t mean to— Fuck. Sorry.”

His keys were still in his hand. In a few strides he crossed the living room, wrenched open the door and was gone.

...

It was midnight when Robin crept back into the flat, her heart hammering. She had fully expected to find Strike cleared out and gone, back to sleep in his water-less flat rather than face her, but he was sat on the sofa. He’d removed his leg and drunk several beers, by the little collection of empty bottles on the floor by the coffee table. Robin was relieved to see him, and relieved to see he’d been drinking, as indeed had she. A little alcohol might ease the excruciating embarrassment.

Although, now that she was tipsy, buoyed up by music and dancing and a few margaritas - and what a fantastic evening she had had - she was less sure that she was, in fact, embarrassed. The expression that had flitted across Strike’s face at the sight of her topless had rather reminded her of the way she’d felt when she’d looked at his arse. And at least he’d had the decency to turn away. They were even, although he didn’t know it.

He looked up at her as she came in, and flushed a little. “Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” Robin replied. She went over to the little kitchenette and put the kettle on, then kicked off her heels with a sigh of relief.

“Good night?”

“Yeah, great, thanks. You?”

Strike waved an arm at the empty takeaway cartons and beer bottles. “Yup. I’ll tidy up.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’ll do it in the morning. Tea?”

“Please.”

Silence descended as Robin made two mugs of tea and carried them over to the coffee table. She set them down, to a muttered “thanks” from Strike, and sat next to him.

There was a long pause. Strike inspected the label on his last, almost-empty Doom Bar. Robin chewed her thumbnail a little.

Strike put the bottle down and sighed. “Robin, I’m sorry—”

He turned to face her, and she was giggling. Nonplussed, he stared at her, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “What?”

“We’re even, you know,” she said, grinning.

Strike frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I saw your arse. In the shower.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What? When?”

“Early this morning. I heard— Well, it doesn’t matter. I walked in by accident just like you did tonight.”

Strike stared at her for a long moment, uncertain where this conversation was going. He blinked a couple of times.

“Um, I’m not sure that makes us even. I feel like I saw rather a lot more than I should have. More...personal than what you saw.”

Robin blushed a little but held her nerve. “Yeah, but you only had a tiny glimpse. I...could have left a lot quicker than I did.”

Strike snorted. A slow grin crept across his face. “Is that so?”

Robin shrugged, a feigned nonchalance that was belied by her red cheeks. “You have a nice arse. What can I say?”

Strike didn’t know what to say to this. Returning the compliment seemed inappropriate.

Robin raised her eyebrows. “And?”

Strike grinned again. “That’s not fair. I can’t say anything back to you without sounding like a perv.”

“Yeah, you can.”

Strike eyed her thoughtfully. “Robin, where’s this going?”

“Well, I just thought, if I liked what I saw, and you liked what you saw...”

“Robin—”

“Did you like what you saw?”

“Good grief, Robin. I’m a red-blooded male, of course I liked what I saw. But we’re still friends, colleagues...”

“And how’s that going to work after this weekend?”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find a way.”

“Of course we will. We’ll find a way whatever happens.”

Strike hesitated. Was she really suggesting—? He’d had a few beers and she’d been out drinking too but he was pretty sure neither of them was _drunk _drunk.

Robin just looked at him, smiling softly, and then leaned across and pressed her lips to his.

There was a pause, and then slowly, his lips softened against hers as he relaxed into the kiss. Robin opened her mouth just a little, her tongue reaching forward tentatively, and with a groan Strike responded, kissing her back fiercely. They kissed and kissed, and somehow Robin found that she had one hand on his thigh and the other in his hair. His hands moved to her waist as he turned to face her properly.

Eventually, Robin broke free of the kiss and smiled up at him, shivering a little.

“Wow,” she said, grinning.

“Wow indeed.” His voice was husky.

“So,” she said, and suddenly her grin was cheeky. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Strike laughed and kissed her again.


End file.
